


I Should Live In Salt

by dreadwulf



Series: unnamed Jaime/Brienne series [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, book canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-08-18 07:30:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8153978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreadwulf/pseuds/dreadwulf
Summary: Jaime and Brienne have survived the confrontation with Lady Stoneheart, at a terrible price.





	1. The Fall

**Author's Note:**

> I'm fairly worried about what will happen to Jaime and Brienne in The Winds of Winter. So this is me working through what I think could happen. Playing out what I think would be the worst that could happen that would still leave everyone alive.
> 
> This is my first story in awhile and my very first for this fandom. I apologize in advance. Big big thanks to Mikki NothingElse for her beta reading and cheerleading.

Jaime didn’t see Brienne fall from her horse. She had been riding so far behind him on the road that he had not glimpsed her for some time, and he was so exhausted and lost in his thoughts that he did not immediately turn when he heard the crash. It was only the cry of alarm from Pod dropping to the Maid of Tarth’s side that roused him, and Jaime turned back to see her mare trotting riderless down the road.

Podrick and the hedge knight Hunt were already tending her by the time Jaime reached the place where Brienne had fallen and slung down from his mount. She laid awkwardly in the mud, her absurdly long limbs flung out around her. _Clumsy as ever,_ he thought, standing over them. Pod called her name and shook Brienne’s mailed shoulder, but she showed no sign of stirring.

Hunt took charge of the situation quickly, irritating as ever. He ordered the boy about as though he were his own squire. “Get her helmet. Did she hit her head?”

Jaime’s dislike for the upjumped gamesman had been instantaneous, and nearly every word out of the man’s mouth he countered inwardly. _Of course not, that’s what the helmet’s for, dullard_. That helmet had not left her head since first he saw her at the encampment, and even when they bedded down she had refused to take the blasted thing off. At least it had been good for something.

Hunt steadied her shoulders and put a hand behind her head as Pod pulled off her helmet. She had a sweaty pallor underneath, and all her hair plastered to a wound on her cheek. Her face was still. Jaime stood over them, the shade of his missing hand clenching.

“She was so quiet today,” Pod worried. “Ever since—“

The hedge knight scoffed, but with some obvious affection. “She’s always quiet.” The presumption of the man, to refer to Brienne as though he knew her well. It made Jaime itch. Hunt settled her on the ground and his left hand came away slick with blood. “Bleeding somewhere. We’ve got to get the armor off of her, rebind her wounds.”

“Gods, she’s burning up. Could she be ill again?” Pod felt her forehead anxiously.

“Her face is healed. But she’s got new wounds now. I told her…” Hunt sounded frustrated.

Jaime interrupted, addressing them directly for the first time since they had set out that day. “Again? Ill again? Would someone care to inform me of what’s bloody going on here?”

He did not enjoy the accusatory way they looked up at him, how much an interloper it made him out in their journey. He liked even less the fear on young Podrick’s face. “She was not well, my lord. My lady was hurt badly when we were captured, before she… rode out to meet you.”

“She said nothing of it to me.”

The hedge knight was hastily undoing the straps of the lady’s armor and pointedly did not look at him when he replied. “As if you would have let her get a word in edgewise.  Pod, help me lift her.”

He could have meant any point in this whole ordeal, but made Jaime think most of that morning. Striking their hasty camp had turned into a confrontation, and in the end he had mounted his horse and ridden South with the rest of them trailing behind. Brienne and Jaime had said nothing at all to each other since then, and rode in uncomfortable silence broken only by young Podrick’s hopeful commentary and Hunt’s grandstanding replies. Somewhere in that silence the Maid of Tarth had taken ill and breathed not a word to anyone – or had it begun before? Had her fever raged even as they faced the awful revenant of Catelyn Stark the day previous? All the hours of daylight had passed, and he had hardly looked at Brienne.

Jaime looked at her now. She was pale and thin and limp beneath her squires’ hands, not at all the unyielding aurochs he remembered. This oagress had struggled at every step when stripped of her armor by the Brave Companions, all those months ago, but she fought this not at all. It seemed unnatural somehow. He saw again the angry red marks around her neck, and it made his stomach twist.

Jaime knelt down beside the boy Podrick and this Hyle Hunt, who made no room for him beside their lady. He could be of no help when they moved her, but he could take the pieces of her armor away with his good hand and set them aside carefully. He could not help imagining how cross the wench would be with them when she realized they had undressed her, but there was no helping it now. When at last nearly all every piece had been removed, Ser Hunt pulled up her jerkin where the blood matted at her side, and finally pulled it over her head to reveal the source of the bloodstains.

“Seven hells,” he whispered without breath, seeing what had been done to her.

It seemed there was no part of her not bruised, cut, or broken. There were old scars, a few he plainly recognized from some time ago – the rake of claws across her collarbone, a wound at her thigh. But many were recent, and some were still fresh. Her chest purpled around broken ribs. Her sword arm was splinted for a break that was healing poorly. A patchwork of wounds covered the rest of her, angry red tears and deep black contusions in her pale flesh. A deep wound at her side bled fresh, and her face – her face she had hidden from him before under hair and helmet so that only the swelling red showed through, but now he could see clearly the damaged cheekbone and the tears in her flesh, framed by what looked to be teethmarks.

Unthinkingly he reached out to touch her face in horror and curiosity and was pushed away by Podrick with an almost comically stern look on his young face. He and Hunt had seen all of this before, and Jaime felt their reproach for looking too much on their lady’s wounds.

Hunt slowly poured his flask of water over the wound in Brienne’s side and Pod worked at cleaning out the dirt and pus. Despite that Pod had cleaned and dressed the wound this morning it smelled faintly of infection, and her breath hitched painfully as they tended to it. It must have been agonizing, for the longer they worked at it, the more she began to cringe away from their touch. Poor Podrick winced at that. Jaime took heart to see her responding to something. He kept his left hand at her shoulder to hold her still, in a place that seemed uninjured, where it wouldn’t cause her more pain. Her skin was startlingly hot to the touch.

Podrick looked to Hunt. “What are we going to do?”

“Ride for the Isle,” the hedge knight said decisively. “Assuming we can get her on a horse, it’s an hour’s ride to the shore. Between the two of us—“

That was quite enough. “Three,” Jaime broke in loudly. “Three of us. I assume you learned to count at some point, even if you are only a hedge knight…?”

Hunt glared at him this time, with real fire. “Two. Me and the boy. You’ve made it perfectly clear that you only care to get back to your precious army and your damned Red Keep. Go ahead and leave. We serve Brienne of Tarth, we’ll take care of the lady.”

Exasperated, Jaime gestured to their mounts. “These are my horses you ride, or bought with my gold. Perhaps you’d like to walk instead, if you don’t want my help? I am as much a part of this as you.”

“Your money is. But where have you been? You gave her this mad quest in the first place and you didn’t have the decency to go with her. And she’ll destroy herself to fulfill it. Look at her! Look at what you’ve done!”

“Stop it!” Pod broke in, distraught. “Stop fighting. You’ll only upset her. And we have to decide.”

Hunt stood. “The Quiet Isle. We were there not long ago, they will welcome us. They have maesters who can help her there. We don’t need your gold or your help for that, Kingslayer.”

In the end they did need his help, though it was little enough help Jaime could offer. He and Podrick managed to seat Brienne ahorse in front of Hyle Hunt, not without considerable struggle – Brienne as large and as weak as she was, Pod being short and Jaime short a hand. Even with the horse kneeling they only barely managed. He tried not to think on the pain they must be causing her as they hoisted her up.

The sight of the wench slumped in Hyle Hunt’s arms troubled him in some obscure way, but he knew very well that had he been on his own he would have been unable to move her. Rarely had he felt so useless.

Jaime rode behind Pod and Hunt this time, his eyes on Brienne to make certain she did not fall.  _Look at what you’ve done,_ rolled around and around in his head. _Look at what you’ve done._

* * *

 

At the shore of the mudflats that lead to the Quiet Isle a dilemma presented itself. According to his shabby companions, the path to the Isle was treacherous and secret, and had to be reached on foot. They had been shown the way once, but this was no guarantee they would find it again. To hear them tell it, a wrong step could quickly sink them in quicksand. The low tide at moonrise would allow a crossing, but they must complete it before the tide comes in, lest they all drown. All of which sounded to Jaime like a tale to dissuade unwanted visitors, but when he set foot into the muck to test the idea it quickly sunk to his shin. Treacherous enough, at any rate, that carrying Brienne through the mudflats would invite disaster, and would be much too slow besides.

Someone would have to stay ashore with the lady, and someone would have to cross the Path of Faith to the Quiet Isle and bring back help.

Podrick argued strenuously that he could go for help and the two of them could stay with Brienne, as he had memorized the path. Neither Hyle Hunt nor Jaime were eager to send the boy alone as darkness was falling fast. The question remaining was who would accompany Podrick and who would wait with Brienne.

Of course neither of the men trusted the other to stand watch. Jaime knew little-to-nothing of this Ser Hunt, only that his house banner would be an upended stag and he served the Baratheons. Hardly endearing. Hunt for his part had open contempt for the Kingslayer, which before now he had swallowed in deference to Brienne of Tarth. Now he had little incentive to pretend respect. Pod watched the debate with increasing anxiety, noting the last light of the setting sun fading around them.

“Why were you accompanying her in the first place?” Jaime pressed. “From the looks of you, hoping to beat her to the prize and claim a ransom for the Stark girl. If I pay you a few coppers, will you go away?”

“I mean to marry her,” Hunt announced.

Now that was surprising. “What for?” he blurted out, even as he found some amusement in the thought. _You are a more eligible maiden than I imagined, wench. Already I have met two of your suitors._

“For Tarth,” Hunt said plainly. “Obviously. That was my first intent, I’ll admit. As we traveled I grew rather fond of the girl. She’ll be no kind of wife, of course, but I’d be a good husband. For the Sapphire Isle I could tolerate taking Brienne the Beauty to wife. I might even enjoy it.”

Jaime wanted to laugh in his face. The Maid of Tarth wouldn’t have gone along with this plan, he was certain. “She’d never take you. I know her interests and they are… considerably prettier. And a bit out of your class. Though, it’s true, I’d enjoy seeing you try to bed her. She’d smash you into paste without breaking a sweat.”

Hunt was less than amused.  “King Renly was girlish foolishness, she’d admit it herself. This is practical and real. And she was coming around to the idea. Meantime, what is your own interest here? Protecting an investment? Want the Stark girl for your sister-lover? Why should I trust you to guard anyone? Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. Why should I expect you to do anything but flee at the first sign of trouble?”

 _Aerys. Always it comes back to that._ By now Jaime lacked the patience even to be angry. Instead, he opened the saddlebag on his mount and withdrew his golden hand, which he had not worn since leaving his camp at Riverrun. 

“Here,” he thrust it at Hyle. “Solid gold. It’s worth a fortune. Maybe even as much as Tarth, come to it. If I am not here on the morrow it’s yours. Do you have anything nearly so valuable to back your word?”

Hunt weighted it in his hands, growing glum. He knew when he was beaten. “If you are here, and she is here, and she is alive, then I return your hand.”

“Done.” _I hate the bloody thing anyway. Let him run off with it and not trouble us again._

Podrick sniffled a little as he arranged his pack under the lady’s head to make her as comfortable as possible. “We will bring help, Lady Brienne. Thank you for returning for me.” He kissed her on the undamaged cheek, touchingly. In a flash Jaime saw their embrace the night before, in the midst of the nightmare. Her tenderness and protectiveness of the boy had been obvious, and almost motherly. Clearly young Pod was devoted to her as well.

Podrick paused before Jaime as though to instruct him, or perhaps warn him, but after meeting Jaime’s eye but the words seemed to die in his throat. Too intimidated to try again, he whirled around and started wading through the mudflat, with Hyle Hunt behind him. Hunt did not look back.

Jaime sat at Brienne’s shoulder on the wet, mossy bank while their horses grazed nearby. For all he had insisted on staying with her, he had very little idea of what to do now that they were alone. He could check her wounds, but he was hesitant to move her again when she seemed to be resting quietly. She moved little, only her chest rising and falling with noticeable effort, perhaps due to her broken ribs. He listened to the sound and to the distant raging of the Trident while the rescue procession picked their way haltingly through the mudflats.

Jaime sat at Brienne’s shoulder on the wet, mossy bank while their horses grazed nearby. For all he had insisted on staying with her, he had very little idea of what to do now that they were alone. He could check her wounds, but he was hesitant to move her again when she seemed to be resting quietly. She moved little, only her chest rising and falling with noticeable effort, perhaps due to broken ribs. He listened to the sound and to the distant raging of the Trident while the man and boy picked their way haltingly through the mudflats.

When they had disappeared from sight he moved closer and brushed her thin blonde hair aside to examine her face. It was a frightful sight, half of it puffy and raw, a chunk missing from her cheek. _Lucky thing then you were ugly to start with._ An uncharitable thought meant kindly. Another woman might have despaired at such a disfigurement, but Brienne of Tarth was not like other women. A scar would be a small matter to her, if she lived.

The untouched half of her face still bore old injuries. Cuts and bruises mainly, plus her crooked nose. Her freckles seemed to have multiplied from long hours in the sun, though possibly he had simply never seen them so clearly. One could not look Brienne long in the face before she would turn away self-consciously. She never much liked to be looked on, he thought, and no wonder. This was his first opportunity to study her at length without her taking it for mockery, and it was luxurious in its way.

After a time she turned her face towards him without opening her eyes. Her forehead creased with pain and her body tensed and twitched, but the only sound she made was the hitching of her breath.  _Still stoic, even when unconscious. You never weaken for a moment, my lady._

It was hard to say how much time had passed. Full darkness had come, and the half-moon rose over the trees with a feeble light. It would be many long hours before sunrise. He should have stretched out on the bank beside her and slept while some light still remained, but it was too late for that now. With all that lurked in the Riverlands he would have to stay awake until morning.

When the light had gone and he could no longer study her face, he looked up to the skies instead. Clouds blew by briskly, obscuring the stars. A fire would be unwise here, though the warmth would be welcome. He could not risk attracting any of the remaining Brotherhood, or any other attention for that matter. Despite his practice sessions there was not much he could do to defend them if they were attacked. With Brienne’s sword he could best a single man, he thought, but more than that and he would fail.

Helpless, useless. He should have gone with Pod and left Hunt here. The man might have been a common lout but he could have been able to care for her. At least he had two good hands.

Not long after this thought he realized that Brienne was shivering. Chills, cold, or injury? He had seen men on the battlefield trembling before they died of their wounds. What had they done for them, besides bury them? Jaime closed his eyes and thought through every battle he had fought, what the maesters had done on the field. They warmed them as best they could. Kept them comfortable. Gave them milk of the poppy and all the tinctures and medicines that he lacked. Healing or comfort he could not offer, but he could do something about warmth.

His gold Lannister cloak was filthy by now after the events of the last few days, but it would serve. He pulled it from his shoulders and tucked it around her, over the tunic they had replaced before their ride. The cloak wasn’t quite large enough to cover her long legs, but it would help. He felt her forehead and found her still hot and clammy. have it right? Was warmth what she needed, or did it make her fever worse? The shivering, temporarily eased by his cloak, returned and worsened. Jaime could see her limbs moving anxiously beneath his cloak. He had to fight down his worry. It felt like an icy fist around his heart.

Carefully, with his one good hand and the stump of the other, he lifted and pulled her closer, setting her head back down across his legs and smoothing her hair along her face. Jaime did not often question his impulses, and he did not question them now. He only knew it was something he could do, some small thing, to ease her pain.

Her hair, while not the least bit pretty, was very fine and soft. When he ran his thumb across it, down the side of her face, the short wild locks would smooth, and then curl back again, as though chasing his touch. He did it again and again, watching her face.

She had done this much for him, and more, when they were captives. There were days he could barely remember on the road to Harrenhall, when he had shook with infection and agony at the loss of his hand and she had cared for him. In the days they were bound together in the saddle and he would slide in and out of consciousness, and in the nights she would clean his stump, bandage it, even feed him. He would never have guessed her capable of such tenderness. He had none himself to return to her. What did he know of comforting another? He had held none of his children as they cried, could not remember being held so himself. He had soothed no lovers but Cersei, and she would quickly grow impatient with his caresses. Brienne’s had been the most gentle touch he could remember, and he could do so little to repay it.

He spoke it aloud, knowing she would not hear. “I’m sorry, Brienne. I don’t know how to do this.”

So much had gone wrong.


	2. The Nightmare

At her betrayal Jaime had gone cold and still inside, and whatever tenuous connection there had once been between them broke.

He had been sitting at their campfire, unarmed, when they took him. They had thrown a bag over his head, had chained him, had thrown him over a horse. In between they’d taken opportunity to give him a good kicking, though, he noted with a grim sort of pride, he had certainly had worse. Perhaps they were in a rush. They rode hard for some unknown destination despite that night had fallen hours ago and driving horses past a canter in the dark was risky. Something, or someone, waited for him and would not be waiting long. 

He heard multiple voices, more than six, less than a dozen. Too many to fight alone, not too many for two swords. But there had been no fighting, and no sign of Brienne the Beauty since his mysterious captors had attacked. For a short while he told himself they were both prisoners again, despite all indications otherwise. It could almost be funny, when he thought of it that way. Their travels had already been an endless series of one person or other taking him prisoner, this would fit right in. What a poor bodyguard she had made for him. 

But he had seen her look up behind him, back at the campfire, and not move to warn him or defend their camp. He could recall her expression clearly as one of grim resignation. The Maid of Tarth knew they were coming. She had given him to his enemies.

 _Anyone who is not us is an enemy,_ Cersei had always said. How could he have forgotten it? How she would laugh to see him now. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Commander of the Lannister armies, slung across a horse like a side of beef and helpless to resist. He considered rolling off, quickly enough to evade the rider, and running into the dark. Most like he would break his neck in the fall. Once he might have tried it anyway at a moment’s impulse, but he had been forced to learn some caution since the loss of his hand. Even if he landed well he would not get far, and if it came to fighting he would not hold out long with his off hand, even with all his sword practice. His only consolation was that they had not killed him already, which might speak to their intentions. They could mean to ransom him, not knowing there were precious few Lannisters left to do the paying. There was still the Rock and all its gold and for that they would keep him alive. Luckily they had not already found his golden hand and decided it reward enough to cut his throat.

Already he discounted any aid from his former traveling companion. Jaime would be on his own now.

When at last they stopped, pulled him down from the horse and removed the bag from his head, Jaime found himself amongst the brotherhood without banners . It was not at all as he had envisioned it, from his reports of their long activity. The camp was a shambles, worse even than the pathetic siege he had found at Riverrun. There was no sign of Lord Berric anywhere. The men were hungry and disorganized, their equipment meagre. They were more a mob of desperate scavengers than the heroes of the smallfolk they liked to claim. How far the Lightning Lord’s company had fallen. 

The mob gathered around him with no apparent chain of command, shouting and spitting on him. Jaime ignored them all contemptuously, thinking that he had a better class of captor amongst the Starks. They at least had taken him openly after defeating him fairly on a field of battle. He could handle Starks. These mongrels were of a different caliber, and less predictable. They looked neither to be opportunists nor idealists; if they were robbing they did it badly, and their mission over the years had devolved into haphazard massacres. From the looks of them their soldiers were paid entirely in blood. This did not bode well for his future.

He imagined himself whole and ready to fight, freeing himself, slaughtering them all with two good hands. The wench included. Her most of all, wherever she was. He saw her nowhere in the crowd of angry faces around him.

A man wearing a dog’s helm grabbed the collar around his neck and dragged him into a cave, where a roaring bonfire raged in a pit surrounded by skulls. The cavern was stuffed full of men who awaited him eagerly, with their jeers and taunts. Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. The usual.

Jaime took in every detail of his surroundings, alert for escape routes. Given any opportunity to steal away, he would run. He had two good legs and they had not yet fettered him. The only trouble was where to run to. To his camp, naturally, to rain down hell on the brotherhood with Lannister forces. But after that? His instincts said King’s Landing, the place he had just run from. There was nowhere else to go but back to Cersei. She was his other half, he had followed her all his life and he desired her still. Even if she was vain and stupid and unfaithful, she at least would never sell him to the brotherhood. Cersei needed him. He needed her. It was enough. It was an empty and unconvincing thought that he nonetheless clung to obsessively. _I must survive this. I must get back to Cersei._

Somehow he could not quite call his sweet sister to mind, however much he tried. Instead he kept picturing Brienne the Beauty and her wretched ugly face, her piercing blue eyes, sitting across the fire, watching him be taken.

The man in the Hound’s helm, the one who was obviously not Sandor Clegane, deposited him beside the fire pit. He had some level of authority, clearly, but he was no more than a commoner like the rest. Where was Beric Dondarrion? Where, for that matter, was the Hound? Jaime wondered briefly just how his father’s creature had given his helm and reputation to the brotherhood with no sign of the man himself there.

“What of young Podrick Payne, and Ser Hyle Hunt?”

He had not heard Brienne stride up behind him, and he confirmed with a brief look over his shoulder that she was not fettered or cowed. The maid wore all her armor and held the pommel of her sword at the ready, her strong jaw clenched tight. “You promised to release them if I brought the Kingslayer. That was our deal.”

That seemed unnecessary. That explanation was for him, he was sure of it. She wanted him to know.

 _You don’t know anything, you fool,_ he reminded himself, and ground his teeth. _The wench is a stranger to you, and always was. Anyone who is not us is an enemy._

They brought out a boy not yet ten years old, sleepy and stumbling between their swords. His eyes opened wide and he ran at Brienne of Tarth, who opened her arms to him. The boy threw his arms around her waist and pressed himself to her armor, sobbing, as she stroked his hair. “I’m so sorry, Pod,” she murmured, scarce loudly enough to be heard.

How hard it was to look on her and hate. Left alone he could despise the wench for her betrayal, but in her presence it was harder to stoke his anger. Watching her holding this child, he felt only a twisting knife of pain in his chest.

The man they brought out in mismatched armor, beaten but still blustering. His face was swollen badly. He jerked his arms away from his captors to stand on his own feet, and nodded to Brienne, who nodded back.

The Maid of Tarth asked the assembled Brotherhood if they were free to go.

“That’s for the Lady to decide,” Hound’s Helm told her.

Brienne flushed angrily. “Our deal –“

“I made no deal with you. That’s between you and the Lady.”

“He’s only a child. Let him free, at least.”

“The Lady will decide what happens with these two. The Kingslayer’s Whore stays.” More murmured assents from the crowd, who repeated the phrase amongst themselves. Kingslayer’s Whore.

Incensed, Jaime spat back at Hound’s Helm. “Who, her? You must be joking. I wouldn’t touch this beast for all the gold in the seven kingdoms.” He didn’t have to look at Brienne to know she flinched, he could see it in the hungry grins on his captors’ faces. How he hated them all.

The boy was looking at him intently, and for the first time Jaimie noticed a red welt across his throat, just like the one around the long white neck of Brienne of Tarth. Hyle Hunt had the mark too, Jaime saw, though fainter. A terrible thought worked at him.

Jaime had noticed, but pushed from his mind the observation of Brienne’s injuries. The damage to her face that he couldn’t get a clear glimpse of. The scar around her neck. The stiff way she held herself now spoke to pain, and from the way she held her shoulder he suspected some injury to her sword arm. He had thought when first she came to him that she looked ten years older and far sadder than he remembered. It all meant Brienne had been defeated recently, and soundly.

Dread began to pool in his chest as he contemplated what that meant.

All the while a murmur ran louder around the camp _, the lady is coming_. Jaime had been hearing it ever since he arrived. At first he thought at first they meant the wench, but he banished that idea quickly. These men had no more respect for her than they did for him, whatever part she had played in this farce. Whoever they spoke of now, they did not dare ridicule. An undercurrent of dread thickened the air and made all conversation and activity fall silent, muffling the announcement that none of them had to make.

_The lady is here._

She was grey as slate and dressed in finery gone to rags, bedraggled and torn. Her hair hung in thin white wisps around her face. The crowd parted for her slow steps. She walked heavy, as though weighted down, but her eyes were locked on Jaime from the moment she entered.

 _Lady Stoneheart_ , someone hissed. An appropriately garish name. Jaime knew her true name as soon as he set eyes on her face, a face he had glimpsed often enough through iron bars never to forget it. _Catelyn Stark_. Barely recognizable without her red hair and her furs, her throat gaping, her eyes empty and awful.

He could not help looking up at Brienne of Tarth where she stood guard nearby, at how she bowed her head and looked stricken, not triumphant. Her eyes flickered to his only briefly, and he saw the same horror there that he felt at the abomination before them.

Now he understood. Lady Catelyn. Brienne was sworn to her, and served her even in death. Of course that oath would trump all other considerations. It would be just like the mindlessly loyal girl to do a dead woman’s bidding. It was a relief, in a way, to understand what had happened to him. In the back of his mind he had run through a dozen explanations for why the wench would have given him over to the brotherhood and none of them made any sense – what could they have offered her in exchange, money? Power? Unless she had been a brilliant liar, and he knew she was not, Brienne wanted neither of those. He could have lived with it, if she had, but it was not in her character. Worst had been the thought that the Maid of Tarth had come to despise him, like everyone else who was not a Lannister, and had lured him into capture for that reason. Startling, how relieved he was to have some other reason.

With this realization, he could smile and greet the grim lady in his most jovial tone, ignoring for the moment that she had him once again on his hands and knees in the dirt at her feet.

“Lady Stark, a pleasure to see you again. You’ve looked better.”

The impact of a booted foot threw him into the packed dirt floor, leaving his jaw aching and right ear ringing. Righting himself again he spat blood at her feet and continued as though he had not been interrupted. “Had I known you were returned from your brother’s wedding I might have sent him your regards when I saw him weeks ago. You’re not nearly as dead as I’ve been told.”

“Dead she was,” Hound’s Helm told him, “and she returned. The Lord of Light raised her to drag every Lannister and every Frey down to the Seven Hells.”

He considered this, wiping spit from his face. Returned from death, by some dark magic. He would not have believed it had she not been standing before him with her throat open wide, dried blood caking down her chest.

“Freys and Lannisters. Yet these three are neither,” he nodded to the three companions in their cozy circle, Podrick and Hunt and Lady Brienne. “Do you hang all your allies?”

“ _We hang traitors in Lannister colors.”_ He could barely understand the voice or place exactly where it came from, hanging in the air as it did like a whisper from the stone. It sounded nothing like Catelyn Stark, despite that her own lips moved with the words and her grey hands pinched shut her neck to speak. 

Traitors, she called them. If his lord father had refrained from carving lions into every unadorned surface on Oathkeeper and on the Lannister armor, they might not be in this mess. Jaime’s mind whirled, and through it he kept talking.

“You’ll be returning to claim Winterfell then? Might want to clean up first. All that blood will be a bit scandalous. You might consider higher necklines, Catelyn,” he suggested, eying the gaping wound at her throat. The brotherhood roared around him. “And what will you do with your hair? Shame about your hair. It was quite pretty.”

“Shut up, for seven’s sake,” the Maid of Tarth hissed at him. He would not look at her.

“Of course you know the Boltons hold Winterfell now, under Lannister allegiance. Will you use us to treat with them, then? Get back your home?”

It was a small hope, and the Lady dashed it immediately. “ _Winterfell is lost. My home is here._ ”

The brotherhood could be provoked, the curses around him proved that. But Stoneheart would not – the lady’s expression remained as coldly imperious as before, with none of the passion Catelyn had in life. Maybe nothing would move her anymore.

“If you’ll be hanging me—“ he started, eyeing again the three other prisoners.

Shouts rang out around him. “Hanging’s too good for the Kingslayer!” They suggested any number of gruesome fates for him, boiling alive, flaying, drawing and quartering, making good sport of it until Lady Stoneheart raised her grey hand and the entire company went silent as the grave.

_“We will take your head on a spike and carry it as our standard. The rest we burn.”_

“My Lady Stark.” Brienne of Tarth stepped forward, with a hasty bow. “I have brought the Kingslayer as you asked. Will you release Podrick Payne and Hyle Hunt as agreed?”

Lady Stoneheart did not answer, but stayed focused on Jaime. Brienne eyed the grey lady but wasted no time. “Go,” she said quietly to young Pod, who still had arms wrapped around her. “Go on now. Escort Ser Hyle, you will be his squire now.”

“But my lady—“

“Go.” Brienne was firm, and she stepped back from his embrace. “I will follow later.”

The boy wiped at his tears with the heel of his hand, and looked up miserably at Hyle Hunt. The man had no more liking than Podrick did for this idea. He caught Brienne’s arm and whispered to her, urgently and angrily.

Hound’s helm broke them up, shoving Hunt back from the lady knight. “She stays here. She’s got an execution to perform.”

The Maid of Tarth looked aghast, and Lady Stoneheart smiled viciously. _“They stay too,”_ she hissed through the hole in her throat. _“Until the deed is done.”_

Brienne’s wide eyes raced between the two of them. She had perhaps been counting on getting rid of her other companions before settling the fate of the Kingslayer. She searched the crowd desperately. For what, Jaime could not imagine.

Thoros of Myr,” she cried out in a commanding tone Jaime had never heard from her before. “Has justice abandoned the brotherhood without banners entirely, that you would execute innocents without trial?”

Jaime recognized the red priest in the torchlight, looking sorrowful and uncertain. “It has been our way, under Lord Beric, to allow the Lord of Light to judge,” he spoke out. “But I’m afraid it is no longer.”

Lady Stoneheart covered the hole in her throat and rasped, “ _That one is no innocent.”_

“As I told you before, of the crimes you accuse, he had no part. And if we are to judge the worth of his soul before the gods, grant a trial as honor demands. I will stand as his champion.”

Jaime stared up at her. _What in seven hells are you doing?_

“ _You are sworn to me, not him. You cannot stand for him.”_

Brienne drew herself to her full height, and spoke fiercely and proudly. “I brought him to you to fulfill that vow, as I promised. But you swore to me your own vow – that you would ask nothing of me that would bring me dishonor. And I tell you, it will dishonor me to let this man die for crimes that are not his. Allow me to stand for him before the gods, and if the gods demand we both die, so be it.”

The red priest stepped forward. “The Lord of Light returned you for our leader, Lady Stoneheart. I believe it would honor him to perform the trial. But I leave it for you to decide.”

Stoneheart looked down at Jaime piercingly, giving him the unnerving sense that she could see right into his skull and read what was inside. He shifted uncomfortably where he knelt in the mud and tried to have no preference one way or another. He had already concluded that his head was destined for a spike. The only question that remained was whether Brienne would die with him, and he didn’t know what course would get her out alive.

Hunt shouted at Brienne suddenly. “Don’t do this! You’re in no condition—“

“ _Thoros.”_ Lady Stoneheart commanded, her eyes never leaving Jaime’s face. “ _Prepare the trial by combat.”_

Jaime’s stomach dropped. _She can fight,_ he reminded himself, as he was taken by the elbows and dragged back from the fire. _None of these are worthy fighters, and she can beat them. She bested me when I had two hands and there was no one finer._ But she had not been injured then _. You’re in no condition…_

Scraps and bits of cloth and paper were fed into the bonfire until it roared. Brienne stepped to the fire and drew Oathkeeper, holding a little unevenly in two hands. The beautiful, deadly sword gleamed crimson in the firelight, its golden lions glowing around her steady hands. She held it to the flames and a stillness settled over her visibly. The tenseness and discomfort she always carried herself with fell away. The flames shone in her blonde hair as she closed her eyes and murmured a prayer to the Warrior.

A new murmur ran through the Brotherhood, one for the first time without an ounce of ridicule. This was anticipation, both for a good fight and for her blood to spill. There was always a hunger in this world to watch beautiful things die.

“Ser,” a voice in Jaime’s ear startled him. It was young Podrick, who had been deposited in the mud next to him. “Ser, you have to help her. She tried to defend you, I swear she did. She didn’t want to bring you here, she only did it because of me.”

Jaime hesitated, and looked to the red welt on the boy’s neck. “Because they hung you?”

Pod confirmed the tale.  “She wants to save all of us,” Pod pleaded. “But you can’t let her – don’t let her die. Please.”

Jaime watched Thoros perform the blessing over the flames, invoking the red god to judge the soul of Jaime Lannister through these two champions, Brienne of Tarth and Lem Lemoncloak, the man in the Hound’s Helm.

He believed not at all in the Red God, and knew the trial by combat to be a battle of skill with nothing to do with guilt or innocence. Skill she had, and strength as well, but she had been weakened by unknown trials and suffered untold injuries. And if Brienne truly fought for his soul, she would surely lose. His soul was lost long ago.

Thoros stepped back from the two combatants, leaving them alone in a ring around the bonfire. He took his place beside Jaime in the circle. Seeing his chance, Jaime shot up and grabbed the man by the throat with his one hand and his iron cuffs.

Instantly he was surrounded by swords. But his goal was not escape, not for him.

He insisted to the red priest that he wanted no champion, he would fight for himself. He had no use for a giant maid with a sword, and his one hand was better than her two. She was no true knight and was not fit to stand for him. He could find a better knight in the slums and whorehouses of King’s Landing. He was Jaime Lannister, Commander of the Lannister Army and Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and he needed no freakish ugly woman to fight for him.

He couldn’t see the maid through the wall of steel around him, to know if she heard him.

“It’s too late,” the priest stammered. “The invocation – they are ready to begin.”

“Start again,” Jaime said through gritted teeth. “And give me a sword.”

Stoneheart spoke, and the crowd parted to reveal her standing next to the Maid of Tarth. Jaime released the priest and let him topple to the ground.

_“Brienne is my sworn sword, to do with as I will. Either she will execute the Kingslayer or she will fight for him.”_

Jaime latched onto that choice. He was going to die in either case, so let the farce come to an end. He shouted past Thoros and Stonehart to Brienne waiting beside the fire, and he told her not to fight, not to waste all their time. Just end this charade. When that did not move her he turned to insults. He said every awful thing he could think of, and he could think of _so many_ awful things. He was rotten through and through and he knew how to hurt her most. He insulted her honor, her looks, her fighting ability. They laughed at his japes, the brotherhood. Laughed at her. He hated them all. He hated himself. He could only think to make her drop her sword and walk away. He could not let her fight for him, and he would not watch her die.

Lady Stoneheart only smiled at him with sharp blackened teeth. He had the distinct impression that she knew what he was trying to do, and it gave her pleasure. If he would suffer to see Brienne risk her life for him, then she would allow it. Her only pleasure was his suffering.

The maid’s shoulders slumped more and more with every insult, but her sword stayed in her hand and she stayed on her feet before them all despite what it must have cost her. This stubborn, foolish, brave girl.

A dozen hands pulled him back down to the ground and held him there, and finally all his words and strategies dried up. There was nothing to do now but watch.

_Brienne, don’t you see, she will never let us go. Not if you win a dozen blasted duels. Lady Stoneheart is a creature of pure Hate and she wants my head and she’ll take yours too. She’ll string heads all across the Riverlands to the gate of the Twins and back, and she’ll not be too particular about whose heads, justice and trials be damned. Take your friends and leave. I’m not afraid to die, even without a sword in my hand. At least I’ll know you live._

Lem and Brienne squared off, the bonfire raging beside them. There was a ring of twenty feet around to fight in, formed by the assembled onlookers. Stoneheart had her back turned to Jaime, facing the combatants. Framed by the bonfire, she had an unearthly glow. She raised her hands over their heads and rasped out a final instruction.

Between the fire, the close quarters, and the crowd, it was almost unbearably hot. The light from the bonfire grew so bright that the three figures were no more than shadows.

Jaime held his breath until his head swam with it, so that he nearly missed what happened next in the space of a few seconds.

Brienne raised her great Valyrian sword and turned to salute her liege lady.

Then with a clean, hard stroke Brienne struck off Lady Stoneheart’s head.

The Hound’s Helm reeled back, stunned. With just enough time for another deep breath, Brienne swung around and drove Oathkeeper up into the black maw of that helm, a bloody gush running down the fuller. His body pitched forward, falling into her stance, while his head stayed skewered until she pushed his torso back with her foot and yanked the blade out. 

Lady Stoneheart’s body remained standing somehow, locked in its position of benediction even as its head rolled at its feet.

Beside him Thoros scrambled to his feet and raced for the fire. Or was it to Stoneheart? Perhaps he meant to replace her head. It made no matter; Oathkeeper met him instead at the throat, and his body joined the others on the ground. Then Brienne kicked what was left of Lady Stoneheart into the fire.

Pandemonium ensued.

Jaime’s jaw hung slack with shock. Brienne had pre-empted the duel. She had taken three heads before they could fight back. Not a terribly cunning plan, but a brutally effective one. Without their grim leader the band would scatter in disarray; already they were running in all directions, only some of them pulling their swords to fight.

Hunt and Podrick swung into action on his left, and Jaime soon followed. Even tied and without a weapon, his instinct was to fight; he put his head down and charged the man nearest him, knocking him off his feet. The slight, underfed raider gave him little contest once Jaime was on top of him. Even with his arms bound he was able to locate a knife on the man’s belt and drive it up beneath his ribs.

He was grabbed from behind but managed to roll and club the man across the face with his iron manacles before knifing him. Accustomed as he was to working one-handed, it seemed the chains hardly mattered now. _And a knife is far easier to wield left-handed than a sword. Worth remembering._

He rolled the man off of him and looked over the battlefield. In tight quarters, Hunt and Pod worked together to drive their attackers out of the cave. Brienne fought alone, grim determination in her face. Oathkeeper was red and slick with blood and it struck down their attackers until those who remained turned and fled.

When the last of them disappeared Brienne dropped to her knees, panting, and allowed her sword to slide from her grip. She was covered in sweat and blood, her hair plastered to her cheeks. Lifting her arms, she looked down curiously at her side and found a knife stuck there. She grasped it and pulled it out of her abruptly, tossing the blade aside.

Pod raced to her side and pressed at her wound. Brienne waved him off, smiling weakly.

“Horses, Pod. Four of them. Go.”

The rest happened quickly – though the Brotherhood had dispersed and many of them were dead, the surrounding area could be full of their allies and those left alive could be lying in wait anywhere. They rode away, putting as much distance as they could between them and the dead camp before first light broke through the trees and exhaustion overtook them.

They stopped for a bare few hours rest, not bothering to make a camp or a fire. Pod set about his squire’s duties immediately, working to dress Brienne’s wounds as soon as they dismounted. Jaime collapsed onto the freezing ground and slept dreamlessly. When he awoke he found Hunt and Pod asleep and Brienne missing from her makeshift bed next to the boy. Blearily, Jaime stumbled into the woods to look for her.

He located her some distance from the camp, hunched miserably on the ground with her head bowed. When he came nearer he realized she was sobbing, hiding her face ineptly with huge calloused hands.

In a way this was more alarming than anything else he had seen the night before. Not one tear had she shed in all the time he had known her, not in the face of certain death, not at Harrenhal when he had left her to her fate, not even when the Brave Companions were dragging her behind a tree to rape her. But she wept now. Was it for Catelyn Stark, for her betrayal, for the death of her honor? The sound of it made him want to burn the entire world to ashes.

He withdrew quietly and returned to their camp. After all, what would she do if he tried to comfort her? Collapse into his arms? Of course not. As soon as Brienne noticed him there she would wipe her face hurriedly, swallow her tears, stand up stiffly and pretend it never happened. What good would that do either of them? He left her to her sorrow.

Hunt and Pod were stirring when he came back, and Jaime wasted no time speaking to them. Instead he saddled his horse.

Brienne came to him then, her tears dried. She approached him tentatively, her dear face tense with apprehension. “Ser Jaime, I’m so sorry,” she began to say.

Even then he didn’t look her in the eye, acknowledged her only curtly. In all the gods names, why had he been so cold to her then, after she had saved them all? He thought later, on the shore of the Quiet Isle, that it was shame. She had saved them all and he had done nothing but watch. He had hurled abuse at her and she had borne it, gods only know why. What had he ever done to inspire such devotion? To deserve it? Here was the only true knight in all the world and she had so nearly thrown her life away for him. The thought of it made him sick inside.

“Keep your apologies,” he said levelly, readying his horse to ride. “I know why you did what you did. I understand it. There’s no need for these endless ‘sorrys’.”

“Jaime,” Brienne said softly. Only later did he realize she had called him that. Not Kingslayer or Oathbreaker or even Ser Jaime. Just his name.

He glanced up only briefly, not quite meeting her gaze. Her eyes were liquid and shimmering. If he looked at them he would be lost.

“I must return to the camp. My men will be waiting.”

 “Oh,” she said faintly.

 “I abandoned them. A general abandoning his army, it’s unconscionable. For what seemed like good reason at the time, but I doubt anyone else will agree. I must return as quickly as possible.”

“Yes, of course.”

She looked so sad. Frankly, he would have said anything at this point to make her stop looking at him like _that._ But he only made everything worse by growing irritated. “What do you expect of me? That I would follow you North? Finish the quest you couldn’t?”

There was a strange tremor in her voice, and also a touch of steel. “Perhaps you should take it all back then. The gold, the armor. If I am so disappointing.”

Jaime rolled his eyes cruelly. “I don’t want anything back. Just let this go. You can keep the armor and the sword so long as I don’t have your death on my hands. Forget Sansa, forget Catelyn Stark. She became a monster and your oath is forfeit. Ride back to Tarth. Let this quest go.”

Finally she looked and sounded like the stubborn cow he had met in the Stark camp. “I will _not._ That creature was not Lady Catelyn, and those girls are still in danger. I will not abandon them. I made a promise.”

“Seven hells, woman, do you never quit?” Rashly he dropped the saddlebag and reached for her, above the gleaming plate at her chest to her long white neck and pressed his thumb against the ugly red scar tissue there.  He was startled by the bitterness in his own voice. “Haven’t you learned by now? This is what your promises get you. You swear and swear and put your life on the line to do right and this is your only reward. A rope around your neck. You can’t possibly keep every promise, Brienne, and you surely can’t keep this one. Go home to your island, and forget about knights and oaths and honor. It’s all a lie.”

He released her.

Brienne met his gaze with steely resolve, her blue eyes stern. He thought, later, that he had never admired her more. “I may have failed my oaths to Lady Catelyn and to you, and I may be no true knight, but my honor is all that I have. What’s left of it.” Her chin quivered for a moment, but she set her jaw and held firm. “I will not give up now. I will give your Oathkeeper back to you and all else you have given me, but I will go on. I began without your help and I will continue.”

He turned away from her and mounted smoothly, desperate to be away. “If that’s what you want, you can follow me back to the encampment. You can have whatever supplies you need there.”

That was the last time he had looked on her, before she fell from her horse.


	3. The Cloak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't make me read your mind  
> You should know me better than that  
> It takes me too much time  
> You should know me better than that  
> You're not that much like me  
> You should know me better than that  
> We have different enemies  
> You should know me better than that  
> I should leave it alone but you're not right  
> I should leave it alone but you're not right
> 
> I should live in salt for leaving you behind
> 
> \-- "I Should Live in Salt", The National

Later, sitting beside her on the shores of the Quiet Isle, he marveled at how things could go so badly and still be survived. He held the Maid’s head in his lap and tucked his cloak around her and thought he had done not one thing right since their reunion. That they were alive at all was entirely her doing, and he had failed her. He should have offered her comfort in her tears, he should have reassured her, he should have trusted her more. Hells, he should have gone North with her in the first place, instead of sending her alone to restore his honor. If he had left King's Landing sooner, he would have missed nothing that truly mattered, and all this could have been avoided.

It was too late for all of that now. All he could do now was stay with her until the morning. 

Jaime talked to her. Nothing of import. Songs and stories. She was quieter and less distressed when he spoke, he thought. Perhaps he imagined it.

He spoke of the Trident nearby, of the battle he had only heard of and not seen, where Prince Rhaegar had fallen. He had heard the details often enough from both sides to make a long tale of it, the losing battle, the duel, the dying prince. How different things would be if Rhaegar hadn’t died. To this day he wondered what the prince might have intended to ask of him when he returned from the Trident. Could it have been anything to do with his father’s madness? If he hadn’t met his end with a blow from Robert Baratheon’s Warhammer,  would he have deposed Aerys more quietly, with the Kingsguard united behind him? Rhaegar could have been King. He would have been a good King. Better than Robert, certainly better than any of the Five Kings. Nothing of this war would have come to pass.

And there would be no Kingslayer. He would still be in the Kingsguard to this day, no doubt, with his honor and reputation intact. Jaime’s life might have been entirely different, had Rhaegar only lived.

He fell quiet then, surprised at himself. Once again his most private thoughts came spilling out, when he had only meant to pass the time. It happened so naturally around Brienne.

He thought back on when she had first come to him at his encampment. It was startling to recall how quickly he had agreed to follow her. She had appeared precisely when he needed an ally; here he had been consumed with doubt and confusion, and then here was Brienne, and with her certainty, confidence. The jumble of feeling that came over him as they rode out together he could not quite identify then, but he knew it now. He had been _happy_. More than he had been in some time. Despite that she had been quiet and sullen, he jested with her the entire ride. He told her stories. When they made camp he had talked on and on for nearly an hour solid before the brotherhood put a bag over his head, stupidly grateful for someone to talk to. Someone not of King’s Landing and its treachery, someone not under his orders or currying his favor. Someone with a tongue to tell him he was being an idiot, but fondly so. He had _missed_ her, hadn’t he? Strange how he never understood it until now.

“You did the right thing,” he decided to tell her. “Not that my opinion on what’s good and right counts for much. But you slayed the worst of the brotherhood immediately, destroyed the priest whose magic made that monster, sent the bulk of them scattering to the four winds, and felled any who still held the banner. You minimized the bloodshed and removed an abomination from the world. You did well.” _Precisely as I would have done,_ he added silently. Which was, he suspected, precisely what troubled him.

 _My honor is all that I have. What’s left of it._ It was one of the last things she had said to him, and he had been worrying over it ever since. Was that what she thought? That she had soiled her honor? Yes, she had acted rightly, he had no doubt, but it was not what she expected of herself. What was right action for a man without honor would be distasteful to her, and surely the thought of becoming more like the Kingslayer would be terrible indeed. Was that what she was thinking that silent day’s ride, before she collapsed? Had she succumbed to her injuries or just given up?

_But she did face the same decision I did seventeen years ago, and she made the same choice._

_Catelyn Stark. Aerys. Both slain in defiance of holy oaths to keep them safe, in order to protect innocent bystanders. Both turned into monsters, and had to be stopped._

Jaime recoiled at this thought, for reasons he did not entirely understand. _No, that was different. It’s not the same._

He started talking to her again, partly to soothe his own fears. “You were right this morning. Lady Stoneheart was not Catelyn Stark. Which means,” he emphasized, still stroking her hair, “you should feel no guilt whatsoever for removing her head. Lady Catelyn is who you swore to serve, and she would have been horrified by that monster, surely. You couldn’t leave her running around the Riverlands hanging whoever crossed her path – it would be a taint on your lady’s memory. And just imagine her daughters seeing what became of her. It wasn’t betrayal to cut her down, it was mercy.” 

She gave no sign of hearing him, but he went on anyway. “You shouldn’t judge yourself so harshly. An oath extracted by a hangman’s noose is hardly honorable itself. And that creature cared nothing for your oaths or for the rules of trial by combat. You were right not to trust her word, she would have killed us all no matter what you did. You did right. You were facing an impossible situation and managed to get us all out. Even me. The smart thing would have been to leave me in their hands, take your companions and go. Seven hells, woman, the wisest thing would have been to agree right away to bring them my head and not wait until they were hanging you,” and here he swallowed against a sudden tightness in his throat. “But you are inexplicably, madly loyal. You tried to fulfill all your oaths at once. And when you couldn’t, you chose the living over the dead. There is no dishonor in that. Can you hear me, Brienne? You’re still the most stubbornly honorable knight in the seven kingdoms and you have nothing to be ashamed of.”

He leaned over and brushed his lips against her brow. “I would never have accepted Oathkeeper from you. The sword was never mine to begin with. It’s yours. It’s yours.”

After that there was nothing more to say.

The night felt never-ending, and Brienne grew slowly more distressed. Jaime became intensely aware of the tremors that ran through her, of the pained expressions that flitted across her face. He eventually pulled her closer and laid her head against his shoulder. It seemed to calm her for a time. Her stuttering movements stopped, and she melted into him with a soft sigh.

He imagined for a moment how Brienne would react were she awake. She would always stiffen and pull away from him when they were captives together. He assumed at the time it was out of disgust for him, but it seemed she was no different with her other companions. When Hunt and Podrick had tried to see to her wounds that morning she had rebuffed them as well. _Stupid, stubborn woman._ Now here she was stripped down to her shift, slung around like an overlarge doll, and laid against him like a lover. Perhaps she would wake and shout at him for his presumption. He rather wished she would.

She fit quite naturally in his arms, though.

The night deepened and grew colder, yet she stayed warm against him. In time he grew to welcome the tremors and shivers. Shaking meant she was alive. It was reassuring in its way. He remembered seeing men die of lesser wounds than this, with little notice or fanfare. The thought occurred to him more than once that Brienne could die right here pressed up against him and he wouldn’t know exactly when it happened, only gradually noticing that she had gone still and realize… Jaime pushed these thoughts down hard. He held her to him tighter, leaning his face against her soft hair.

One time only, she awoke. Only for a few moments, and only by luck did he notice when she opened her eyes. He had remembered them vividly all this time, but he had never seen them so close before, only inches away. Their familiar sea-blue made his heart skip painfully.

“Forgive me,” Brienne whispered.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” he answered immediately.

It wasn’t the answer she needed. Her eyes fluttered closed and she did not respond again no matter how many times he called her name. He spent a long time watching her closed eyelids for any sign. If she would just ask him again, just look at him again, he would tell her yes. _Yes, I forgive you, of course I forgive you, yes. I forgave you right away. No matter what I said. Ignore me, I’m a fool who doesn’t know how to stop hurting you. Gods, Brienne, please…_  

He dozed at some point, his head leaned against hers. He woke abruptly with morning light creeping up over the trees and felt her stiffening with pain in his arms and the fist around his heart squeezed. _Warrior, if you hear me. Maiden, Mother. Anyone. Please. Don’t let her die. Please._

The brothers came with the light, carrying a litter. He watched them in their winding path to the shore, silently urging them to hurry.                                                                                                                                                                                             

Still it was surprisingly difficult to let go of Brienne, when the time came. If he could have, he would have insisted on carrying her himself. But he couldn’t; he couldn’t even lift her to the brothers who were taking her away. They pulled her out of his grasp and put her on the litter, still covered with his cloak. Four brothers carried her between them, stepping carefully in the muck, and his arms _ached_ for wanting to hold her again. What if she woke along the way? Would they notice? Would they comfort her? He rose up to follow them and a Brother put his hand against his chest firmly.’

“You are not welcome on the Isle,” the Brother said.

“I brought her here,” he tried to explain. “I’m—“

“Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer. Yes, we know. You are not welcome on our Isle. We are a peaceful refuge, and you are a man of war. We know little of the outside world, but even have seen the horrors you Lannisters have brought to these lands. This is no place for you.”

 _No, no, no_. This couldn’t be happening. His teeth ground in his disbelief. “I promised to stay with her until she is safe. I can’t leave her now.”

The Brother nodded to the keep in the distance, and lifted his arms. In his gloved hand he held Jaime’s golden one, and pressed it into his chest. “Ser Hyle Hunt told us of your promise. I return to you your hand. Go in peace.” 

“I will not be parted from her again. You can’t stop me. I go where she goes.” His left arm crossed to pull  the sword at his hip, and he let the golden hand drop down to the muck and stick there.

The Brother looked him up and down calmly. “Would you strike us down rather than let us help her? If it means her life?”

“I love her,” he said, desperate. In the very same moment he said it, he realized that it was true.

“Then leave,” the Brother said simply.

Jaime let his arms fall in defeat. They had to take her to the Isle to save her life. There was nothing he could do for her here. The brothers waded confidently through their winding way across the mire with their burden and he could see in the distance the gold of his cloak over her body. He watched it through the trees until he couldn’t see them anymore.

He waited. There was nothing else he could do. He could try to follow them, later. Sneak inside? Convince someone to allow him in? The absurdity of it. He had a damned army. He could capture the monastery and burn it to the ground.

What he should really do, what his duty demanded, was just what he had explained to her a day ago. He should be returning to his camp, to his duties. But he could not bring himself to go.

Perhaps the boy would come out and tell him whether his lady had perished.

His remaining hand toyed with the false one listlessly as he sat in silence for hours and hours. He considered letting it sink into the mud and leave it there, but he thought it suited him more this way. As useless as ever and heavy on his stump, but now so filthy and tarnished you would never know there was gold inside.


End file.
